“I can’t.” Despite the protest, I lift his shirt over his head, exposing the hard expanse of his tattooed chest. It’s habit now to let my gaze skip over the face on his arm. “I told Dimitri I’d sleep in his bed tonight.”
A dark, frustrated look passes over his face. “Then I’ll come with you. He won’t care.”
“I can’t,” I repeat, reaching for the zipper on his pants. I dip my hand inside and grasp his cock, and even though I’m kissing him, I’m still saying it. “I can’t, I can’t. Give it to me now. Please?”
The edge of his jaw is tight beneath my lips when I descend, indulging in the coarseness of his stubble.
“You want it?” he asks, hot and heavy in my palm. “Tell me.”
I wait until my mouth moves toward his ear, making sure he hears me clearly. “I want you to come inside me, big brother.”
He makes a soft, rough sound before wrenching us both upright. The flurry of movement disorients me until I feel the hard edge of the dresser digging into my backside. Killian rucks up my shirt, lifts my arms, and then rips it over my head. There’s a brief moment where his mouth is on me, tongue flicking my pebbled nipple, before he’s spinning me around.
It all happens so fast then. I watch his reflection in the mirror as he shoves down his pants, taking out his cock, and then I’m doing the same thing. I claw at the button to my jeans, but he’s the one to drag them down my hips, hands so eager that my body jostles with the force. He plants a hand into the middle of my back and pushes me down, and then he’s shifting his feet, lining himself up, and shoving his dick into me.
I cry out, sounding more shocked than I should be. He feels hot and so hard, thick and right. He doesn’t take it slow. Maybe I could have had that, if I’d let him sleep beside me. Maybe he would have waited until I was quiet and still, and then he might have peppered me with kisses and made love to me. Maybe he would have been sweet and tender and quiet.
The alternative isn’t exactly a disappointment.
He digs his fingertips into my hip bones and fucks me. There’s no other term for the way he slams into me, over and over, face frozen into a stony, urgent frown. I grab the dresser and hang on, bouncing back into him with every thrust. The force and rhythm might be punishing, but it doesn’t feel like punishment at all.
It just feels like desperation.
The dresser cracks against the wall—bang, bang, bang—but it’s not even the loudest thing in the room. That’d be me and the sharp, strained squawks clawing their way from my chest. Killian responds to them with low, ragged grunts. It’s a language only we can speak.
It doesn’t last long.
My orgasm arrives with an abruptness that staggers me. I slap my hand onto the nearest surface for leverage—the cold, smooth glass of the mirror—and grind back into the wild punches of his hips, shuddering out his name as it takes me.
His thrusts get harder, more pointed, and then he’s stumbling into me with a final slam into my body. The best part of this is that I can feel it. His cock swelling inside me. The way it pulses as it pumps me full of him, hot and so unbelievably slick. Killian curls over my back, growling with his surge against me, muscles all coiled tight as he crushes us together, seizing through the vestiges of it.
After that, it’s breathless panting and the sweep of his palm over my breast.
Maybe it could have been tender and sweet.
But this was exactly what I needed.
“Story.”
I look up when he says my name, meeting his eyes through the reflection in the mirror. Ten minutes ago, I wanted to sting him. I wanted to tell him how incredibly fucked it was that he gets off on me being his stepsister, but then has the gall to be embarrassed by it in public. I wanted to tell him the real reason I can’t sleep beside him anymore. I wanted to tell him that I refuse to be some secret midnight fuck he can hide away.
Now, I just want to make sure his cum stays inside me.
“I was wondering,” he says, giving me a meaningful look, “Do you still have that green dress?”
23
Rath
The house is dark when I get home, tired and cold and limping. This Lavinia chick sucks, and not in the wet and sloppy way we all know and love. Saying she’s a kicker is the understatement of the goddamn century. My shin is going to be throbbing for days.
I climb the stairs, wincing with each hobbled step but too impatient for what’s waiting for me to take it slow. I know she’s there the second I open my door, sensing her in some indistinct, primal way. Sure enough, she’s nestled beneath my covers, her dark hair fanned out over the pillows.